


The Republic

by afogocado



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27367543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: You’ve read in books that there are different types of love, but no amount of reading could prepare you for three. The Marshal—Cobb Vanth—teaches you the familiar and sometimes-platonic kind: an innocent, first love that grows into nights where he keeps you warm and sated as your bodyguard; The Renegade—Din Djarin—teaches you passion, and how to tell a man what you want and when you want it; and The General—Obi-Wan Kenobi—teaches you patience, duty, and steadiness: where everything he has done has been in your name and for you since he was a knight-in-training. Set in a Romanesque/Gladiator universe, you are the daughter of the Emperor, and you hold three men in the palm of your hand.
Relationships: Cobb Vanth/Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	The Republic

**Author's Note:**

> Note: well y'all, im really not sure how i feel about this story. beginnings are always so hard? it just doesn't feel quite right yet. but i wanted to share what i had so far. im just trying something new here. 
> 
> Rating and Warnings: 18+ Mature; mentions of oral cockwarming; sex implied; public feral-ness; cobb is a bit of a poetic romantic
> 
> Background on setting: So, this fic is an absolute fictionalization bastardization of Romanesque things. It’s an alternate universe where some of the things like their architecture exists, as well as some of the social status things and events. But for the most part, that’s even changed up to include terms like ‘general’ and ‘marshal’, which they didn’t use. The clothes are loosely based on what they would have worn, but are more form fitting because this is my story and yes, I want to see these men in leggings and tight tunics. Finally, one of the most important things about this Republic is the culture surrounding sex: it is fluid, and filled with freedom. Reader is in her early to mid 20s; the love interests are the ages that they seem to be in canon for the Mandalorian Season 2, and ROTS.

*~*

Cobb Vanth always said that the two of you were like songbirds, flitting to and from each others’ nests at a whim, sharing one another’s bedding with want. To keep warm. To ruffle feathered hair. To love one another in the late-early hours, well before anyone else in the massive villa could even think to wake. And in this early morning, your silk sheets lazy in his lap, your face still pressed into his bare chest, he wakes you with his spoken song. Poetry he keeps in his back pocket for you. Sometimes borrowed; sometimes improvised, like now.

“Cor meum,” he murmurs—‘my heart’, what he’s always called you—petting a line up and down the curve of your ear, tickling you awake. “The golden light paints your face with a new morning. We live to see another day; I gotta leave you soon.” His post. His duties. His hide, should he be caught, especially by your father—the one instance where there is some taboo tied to your shared proclivities. He knows he cannot be seen coming to and from your bedchambers, even though it is probably well-known throughout the small republic that you and your bodyguard folded yourselves into one another to wile away the hours. To combat loneliness. To scratch unreachable itches. To taste the thrill of slight forbiddeness.

“No,” you groan softly into him, and he presses a kiss into your hair. You spread your arm over his middle, gripping his firmness closer to your curves.

“ _Yes_ , amare.” Yes, Love. His warm palm cups your forearm and traces up and up, until he reaches your shoulder and gently presses you away, sitting up with his strong back facing you, and sorting through the pile of your blended night clothes in the floor—a hybridity of your heightened passions from mere hours ago—in search of his.

This great offense wakes you immediately, all the way, and you sit, too, fisting the sheets against your chest. Like he no longer deserved to look upon your bare form.

He tugs his tights on, jumping up from the bed and hopping into them, looking back at you, the long of his hair at the top curving into his forehead and growing—impossibly—more silver with each passing day. His darker locks—like a fine aged oak—are now a retreating memory; the last visage held in the curls that adorn his chest, and the tuft at his mound just above his beautiful cock: now sitting snug and thick and tight against his leg, constrained by the dark fabric that stops at his hips. As though censoring some of the best parts of his physique. You watch his biceps and forearms flex and work as they move to scrub at his face and the two-days-old silver stubble lined at his jaw and cheeks, working himself more awake for these early morning patrols around the interior perimeter of the villa.

“Don’t look at me like that,” his voice is gruff and annoyed, but the softness that always rests easy in the glint of his eyes is there to show that he means no harm with his words.

“Like what?” You arch your eyebrow, playing with him, sliding to your stomach, and reaching for the waistband of his leggings, looking up at him innocently. Your palm brushes over his shaft and he groans, tilting his head back slowly.

“Like you want me to shove my cock down the back of your throat just to keep warm for hours at a time.” He slips his fingers around your wrist and presses you away again. “You stole my soul away from me last night, cor meum. There’s nothing left.”

You fall back against your pillows in a melodramatic sigh and smile up at him, his self-satisfied smirk hidden only briefly as he tugged his form-fitting tunic on over his head. It falls long on him, stopping just above mid-thigh. And he sits back down on the edge of the bed near you as he pulls his boots on. He leans towards you and kisses your forehead while tying one.

“And besides,” he says, tying the other, “you ain’t gonna want for my attention much longer. I hear the General is expected home this evening.” You don’t tell Cobb that you want his attention _all_ the time, regardless of who else is around; that it’s been this way since you were both younger and when he was first appointed your bodyguard.

It started a couple of years ago, in the public baths. Where he had been submerged, sitting on one of the steps, both arms stretched out and resting over the concrete rim. His head tilted back and eyes closed: his silver stubble coating his exposed throat. And you, with bravery coursing through all limbs and every nerve, shrugging out of your day toga, and sliding into the steaming water, sidling up to him, until you were straddling his bare lap with your arms around his neck and his catching you around the small of your back and pressing his forehead into yours. “I been daydreaming about somethin’ like this for the longest,” he grunted against you, bucking up against you, as your fingers traced lines down his lower belly, getting lost in the forest of hairs that crowned his stony hardness pressed against you both, and his hands hard and gripping at your hips to keep you in place. “I’m gonna come to you tonight, and then you’re gonna come for me,” he’d said, covering your mouth with his, his stubble scratching at your soft skin, and swallowing your surprised moan. And the nightly visits haven’t stopped since then. Well, unless the General was around.

But a new excitement flits through you now at his words, because it’s been a very long time since you’ve seen the General and you did feel smitten over him from time to time. And while you and Cobb (and most people in the Republic) practiced free and open love—without jealousy, and the rest—you were the Emperor’s daughter, and you were expected to marry at some point. You’ve heard whispers for ages now that your father hoped to betroth you to General Kenobi: a kind man, and a handsome man. But his passions oftentimes laid with his duty and honor and responsibility to the legion rather than to the matters of love.

So, yes. You would see the General tonight at the welcome home feast. And the Marshal would keep away, and probably find someone else’s bed to keep warm for the night.

*~*


End file.
